


Open Fire

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [7]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Biting, Bondage, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Costumes, Domestic, Domination/submission, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fireplaces, Flogging, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Romance, Santa!kink, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Santa costume.  A stately old English country home Joe has never even heard of before, let alone seen.   And a particularly ugly Victorian fireplace that hides some surprising talents.  Vacations with Methos?  Never, ever dull....</p><p>Part of the Adam and Joe universe.  You probably need to have read at least "Adam and Joe", "House of the Novelty T-shirts", and "Santa Baby" for this one to make any sense. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Fire

**~London, Early November, 2000~**

“Hey, Joe. What would you say to getting out of London for the holidays this year? We could celebrate Christmas at the country house, just the two of us.”

Joseph Dawson, bluesman, Watcher Administrator, and newly publicly “committed” life partner of Watcher Researcher Adam Pierson, put down the cup of coffee he’d been stirring to stare at his aforesaid life-partner across the kitchen table. Much as he’d enjoyed the last few years of living in London, there were definitely times that Joe missed their old home in Paris, and every morning at breakfast usually proved to be one of them. Their London flat gave a whole new meaning to the word “teeny”: the kitchen was so small that the table was squeezed in between two banks of counters, where it took up more than half the available floor space. Methos had to do daily battle with the refrigerator handle and the couple’s small collection of hanging pots and pans just to squeeze by and sit down. 

He was sitting now, looking a touch ridiculous shoved back into the corner with his long legs cramped under the table, an omelet pan and a vintage copper Jell-O mold dangling over his head. (The latter had been a commitment gift from Amanda. Though why the Immortal thief had ever thought that the two of them would want to mold Jell-O was beyond Joe.) Still, uncomfortable as Methos undoubtedly had to be, he was grinning…and it was a grin Joe knew well. Joe sighed, mentally resigning himself to yet another round of his ancient Immortal life-mate playing games with his simple mortal brain. “What house?” he said gamely.

The grin broadened. “Our house. It’s in Hertfordshire.”

“We don’t have a house in Hertfordshire.”

“We do, actually. Or rather, Adam Pierson does. Which means that you do, too, thanks to the domestic partnership paperwork we signed at the commitment ceremony. ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow,’ remember?” Methos gathered up his morning paper and folded it with a shrug. “Turns out my Uncle Ben left it to me. Thoughtful of him, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. Very thoughtful.” Joe nodded stoically, although his mind was racing. He’d long since discovered that Methos’s “Uncle Ben” was even more fictitious than most of Methos’s many aliases; unlike his other pseudonyms, which Methos had used for a few years or a few decades as suited him, Methos had never actually lived as a man called Benjamin Pierson. Uncle Ben was just a convenience, a believable backstory Methos had made up to explain why young Adam possessed so many assets he clearly couldn’t afford. According to the story, Uncle Ben had been a wealthy eccentric who had travelled widely during his long life, buying lots of property and art. Most of Methos’s sculpture collection and several commercial buildings in Paris were his because his Uncle Ben had allegedly left them to him, since Adam was the last living male in that branch of the Pierson line. 

But this was the first time that Joe had ever heard of Ben having any holdings in England. “Let me ask one question,” Joe said. “Was this cottage in Hertfordshire a *recent* acquisition of good old Uncle Ben’s? Or is there a chance that it, ah, has been in the family for quite some time?”

“Well, if you phrase it that way, I suppose there could be a bit of family history behind it, yes.” 

“Uh-huh. Right. And that history would be?”

“It’s just barely possible that the land may have originally belonged to one of Uncle Ben’s forbearers. A gift from a grateful royal, I think.”

“Oh, you think so, do you.” Methos simply nodded, eyes dancing with impish glee. Joe shook his head, feeling a slight headache starting up behind his temples. He resisted the urge to reach up and rub them. “And just what did this forbearer do, pray tell? Smuggle love letters from Henry the 8th to Anne Boleyn?”

Oh, drat. Methos wasn’t just grinning now. He was actually smiling so hard that one of his rare dimples had appeared just below his left cheekbone, a look that always made him seem so endearingly boyish that Joe either wanted to kiss him…or slap him. “Something like that.” 

“Uh-huh. Something like that,” Joe repeated. “Of course.” 

Methos nodded, attempting to look modest and failing completely. Joe looked down into his coffee, stirring it carefully as he mentally pondered what his next move should be. He knew a great deal of Methos’s long life story by now—more, he’d wager, than any other mortal being ever had. But there were still gaps in his knowledge, ones that Methos took an almost unholy delight in surprising him with, and it looked like the history of this house in Hertfordshire was one of them. Which left Joe with two options, as far as he could see. He could simply put aside all dignity and beg to be told the story outright. Or he could play it cool and go along with whatever complicated game his beloved was playing. 

One quick look at Methos, practically vibrating with boyish enthusiasm underneath that silly copper mold, decided him. Whatever it was Methos had in mind, he’d obviously put more thought and effort into it than his casual way of introducing the subject indicated. The least Joe could do was see the game through to its conclusion. “You know,” he said dryly, miming great skepticism, “Most of your ‘ancestors’ kept pretty detailed journals. I thought I’d read all the volumes from the ones who lived in England before we moved to London. I don’t recall anything about a royal gift of land in any of them.”

“It’s quite possible that the written record may be slightly incomplete,” Methos answered, and leaned forward, impatiently bouncing in his chair. “Well, Joe, what do you say? Are you up for Christmas in the country or not? If you are, I need to know now. Maya in the sword archive has already begun murmuring ominously about how sad it is that we don’t have any family to spend our first ‘married’ Christmas with. If we’re not careful, she’ll have some party or get-together planned for every single evening of our holiday.”

Joe laughed aloud at this. He’d wondered, once upon a time, if coming out of the closet would damage Methos’s ability to “do cute” with the opposite sex; he’d been very amused to discover that it hadn’t affected it at all. In most cases, being out actually appeared to have enhanced Methos’s strange ability, making “Adam” still more beloved by the female half of the species than ever. The “cuteness” even appeared to be a contagious quality, because ever since their commitment ceremony, it seemed like Joe had contracted it, too. They were now routinely called “the cutest couple ever!” by most of their female colleagues. Many of whom seemed to be engaged in a friendly competition to see who could invite them to the most dinner and cocktail parties.

This newfound popularity had been more than welcome when they’d first moved to London, when they’d both been feeling a bit lonely and lost in their new city. But now that every work week had turned into a social gauntlet they had to navigate with great care if they wanted to spend a weekend alone, having alternate plans for the holidays they could regretfully refer to seemed like a good plan. “So Maya’s leading the charge in this year’s competition for our holiday companionship, is she?” Joe said in amusement. “She’s getting an early start. But I suppose it’s better than it could be. At least her husband was a field agent before he retired. So I wouldn’t be stuck talking ‘researcher talk’ all holiday.” 

Methos, recognizing this for what it was—teasing pure and simple, since Joe loved talking Watcher Researcher talk even more than Methos did—stuck out his tongue. Joe snorted with laughter, then reached a conciliatory hand across the table. “But when’s all said and done, I’d rather spend our first married Christmas alone with you,” he said. “So, just tell me one thing. Does this ‘royal gift’ of your ancestor’s includes a building somewhere? One with a roof, four walls, and running water?”

Methos’s grin collapsed into a secretive, knowing smirk. “Yes, Joe. I think I can promise that much.”

“Yeah, well, I figured I’d better ask. Royals sometimes have the oddest sense of humor,” Joe answered. Methos said nothing, just continued to watch Joe, smirk firmly in place. Joe lifted his hands above his shoulders. “Fine, then,” he said. “I surrender. I’d be delighted to spend Christmas in Uncle Ben’s lovely country home that you never bothered to mention before this minute. I’m not even going to give you the satisfaction of asking you any more about it. Just go ahead and book the train tickets. Or rent the car. Or do whatever we need to do to get there.”

“I already did.”

Joe blinked, then grinned. “Pretty damn sure of yourself, weren’t you?” he teased. Methos just shrugged and smiled, and they lost a few moments simply looking into each other’s eyes. Finally Joe relaxed back into his chair with a contented sigh. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Usually, when you make big plans for our future without bothering to consult me, you wait until right after we’ve had sex to tell me about them. I don’t know whether to feel honored or insulted that you didn’t this time.”

Methos raised an eyebrow. “Honored,” he said. “I’d definitely go with honored. But just in case…” He made a show of checking his wristwatch. “We still have 15 minutes before I have to leave for work.” He gave Joe a slow, sweeping look from his head to his toes, the type of look that never failed to make Joe’s pulse quicken and his skin tingle. “I wouldn’t want to risk you feeling….insulted…all day.”

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want that,” Joe purred, and got to his feet so he could--somewhat precariously—lean across the table and capture his beloved’s lips in a kiss. It lasted for nearly a full one of those precious minutes, before Joe reluctantly broke away. “You may have fifteen—no, fourteen—minutes, but I’m already running late,” he said sadly. “And I have an early meeting I really can’t get out of. Tell you what. You hold that thought, and I’ll do my best to be home early. Then you can ‘honor’ me all night. Sound like a plan?”

“Love, honor, and cherish,” Methos agreed. 

The old Immortal’s voice sounded teasing. But there was a tender look in his eyes that told Joe he meant the words as anything but a joke. An odd feeling of shyness came over Joe, and he smiled self-consciously as he stepped away. “Yeah, definitely a plan,” he said under his breath, and had to suppress a distinctive fluttery feeling in his chest when Methos heard him anyway and smiled knowingly as he sat back down. The Immortal picked up both newspaper and coffee cup, apparently determined to make the most of his fourteen minutes, while his mortal husband rushed to finish the last of his breakfast, brush his teeth, and otherwise get ready to face the world. When he was, Joe picked up his briefcase, hurriedly brushed a good-bye kiss across his lover’s hair, and headed out. At the door, though, he stopped. “Methos…about this house…”

“Yes, Joe?”

Damn. It was amazing, just how much amusement those two words contained. Methos knew that stories about his past where the equivalent of catnip to a cat for Joe, and that Joe wouldn’t be able to resist asking more for long. “Never mind. I guess I’ll find out when we get there,” Joe said, and hurried out through the door before his resolve could break. 

An amused Immortal laugh followed him out into the drizzly London fog. It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

***  
It was a *very* long couple of weeks. But Joe stuck to his plan. He refused to ask Methos anything more about his country house. Even when the holidays came and it was time to start packing, Joe did not give in, although he really wanted to. With Methos’s odd, “easily amused” sense of humor, Hertfordshire could easily have been a red herring. Their ultimate vacation destination might have ended up being someplace that required a snow parka—or a snakebite kit. 

But when Methos packed his duffle bag with nothing more exotic than his usual weekend travelling clothes—jeans, sweatshirts, the traditional well-worn hiking boots—Joe relaxed. Clearly, wherever and whatever this country home of Methos’s was, it wasn’t anything too unique. Joe packed his own version of the go-anywhere outfit, khakis and sport coat and loafers, with considerable less trepidation then he had been feeling. In all probability, Methos’s house was just a typical English country cottage, nothing more. He smiled to himself, picturing a Beatrix-Potter-style little house complete with thatched roof and a climbing rose over the front door, and found himself truly looking forward to their vacation for the first time. Maybe they’d even have a family of rabbits for neighbors.

So it came as something of a shock when, after a quick half-hour train journey from King’s Cross, they were met at the Hertfordshire station by a car. A car that came complete with a neatly groomed, suit-wearing driver, one who politely greeted Methos as “Mr. Pierson, sir”. He took their luggage and deferentially whisked them away to…something that certainly wasn’t a cottage. Nor was it a small hunting lodge or any of the other things Joe had half been imagining. Instead, Methos’s English country home turned out to be… well, a full-blown English country home. The kind that really needed to have the word “stately” in the title. 

Perhaps a member of the British royal family could have called it quaint. To practically everyone else in the world, it was luxuriant beyond measure. There was a four-story neo-classical entry, complete with whitewashed walls and tall Doric columns. There was a long, curving drive you could land an airplane on. There were more than fifty rooms with more than half a dozen servants needed to take care of them--all of whom lined up outside the entrance to greet them, expertly taking their coats and bags with more of those respectful “sir”s. Joe felt like he’d fallen into another world. 

He managed to keep quiet while Mrs. Thompson, the housekeeper—Methos had a housekeeper???—gave them the two-penny tour, chattering happily about the house’s history and how happy she was that “the old master’s dear nephew” had finally come to stay. But when they were finally left alone together, standing at the foot of the ridiculously grand hand-carved mahogany stairway that dominated the cavernously large front hall, Joe couldn’t contain himself a second longer. “Holy SHIT, Methos!”

Methos, who had been watching Joe’s widening eyes and dropping jaw with increasing amusement ever since they’d first arrived, finally smiled openly. “Surprised, Joe?”

“Surprised? Yeah, I’d say I was surprised.” Joe nodded woodenly, staring at the imposing grandeur all around him. “It’s like something out of a bad BBC costume drama. I keep expecting to see Lady Marjorie come trailing down the stairs, Hudson right behind.”

Methos’s grinned broadened. “Not Hudson,” he corrected. “I’ve never found it necessary to employ a butler here. Just a housekeeper. But I will admit that Mrs. Thompson does rather eerily resemble Mrs. Bridges, in both figure and in temperament.” He smirked. “I would refrain from remarking upon the resemblance to *her*, however.”

Joe shivered. “God. No. Wouldn’t dream of it.” While Mrs. Thompson had been nothing but welcoming, there was a certain set to her jaw that clearly told the world there was a soul of pure steel underneath the well-rounded, bustling exterior. One messed with such a woman only at one’s own peril. Joe looked around himself again, taking in the glorious sweep of the stairs and beautiful, intricately carved, white-painted panels that covered the high arched ceiling, and shook his head. “Okay. What’s the story, Methos? How on earth did you find this place?”

For once his love didn’t try to evade the question. “I lived here. In 1561.”

“Methos.” Joe shook his head disapprovingly. “That would have put you here just a few years after Elisabeth I came to the throne. Which I can buy, since I already knew you were in England then. I even know that you spent a few months at Elisabeth’s court, as one of her personal physicians. But this house couldn’t have been built much before the time of George III. Try again, old man.”

“Oh, the perils of marrying a historian!” Methos said mournfully. “One finds one’s every word doubted, simply because it doesn’t agree with documented fact. But you’re right, of course.” Methos pushed his hands into his pockets, shrugging his sweatshirt-covered shoulders up high around his ears. “This house hadn’t even been dreamt of in 1561. Instead, there was a typical Tudor mansion. It was unbearably drafty and damp, and the mice sometimes held square dances in the main hall, but for its time it was quite a showpiece. It burned down, in the late 1790s. This house was eventually built on the same site. Around 1805, I think.”

“By you?”

“Of course not. I had long since moved on.” Methos leaned casually against one beautifully carved banister. “The 1500's were an interesting century, Joe. In some ways, it seemed like the world was getting bigger every day; explorers were discovering new lands, a fledgling science was getting underway, new works of literature were being written and new masterpieces of art were being painted. But religious persecution and superstition were so rife that it was a very, very bad time to be Immortal.” He traced the line of the bannister with one finger. “I hadn’t lived here for much more than year before I had the misfortune of being thrown by my horse in front of witnesses. In 1562, miraculously coming back to life after sustaining a broken neck was a very good way to get yourself burned at the stake. And just in case that wasn’t enough, there was also this charming local custom of beheading and quartering the charred corpses of alleged witches, to ‘keep them from walking again’. It almost makes me think the townsfolk had dealt with Immortals before. In any event, I barely made it out of here alive. Wouldn’t have, if a good friend of mine hadn’t risked all to stage an escape.”

“Jesus.” Joe shivered. “Is that why there’s a gap in your English journals?”

Methos nodded. “The priest seized them as further evidence of my witchcraft,” he answered. “I’d been writing my journals in hieroglyphics ever since I went to court. Elisabeth had many good qualities, but she wasn’t a monarch big on civil liberties; you never knew who would go snooping through your private papers there. Sadly, the good father thought the hieroglyphics were the devil’s writing, recording the black contract I had made with him. He burned them page by page in front of me, hoping, I think, that I’d magically combust as well. I lost about ten years of history.”

“I’m glad that’s all you lost,” Joe said fervently. “Good god, Methos. Why would you ever want to return?”

“Well, that’s a good question, Joe. I guess it was because, even if things ended rather messily, I did make some good memories here.” He looked around him meditatively for a moment. “Mainly that was because of my friend Jacob—as brilliant a scholar and as true a friend as I ever had. He was the one who rescued me, no questions asked. But it was also because of Katherine, my wife.” Joe blinked, startled. Methos caught his expression and sighed. “Don’t look at me like that, Joe. It wasn’t a love match. Katy never even knew that I was Immortal. She was just a part of the package that came with the land, that’s all. And she was already two months pregnant when we wed.”

“Pregnant?”

“Yes.” Methos nodded. “That favor I did the crown? It left Her Majesty extremely grateful to me, but also rather…eager…to get me away from court. So rewarding me with a gift of land, sending me to the country, and getting Katy safely married without scandal was Elisabeth’s idea of killing three birds with one stone.” He smiled dimly. “Very efficient lady, our good Queen Bess.”

“Oh, geez. What on earth did you *do*, Old Man?”

Methos smirked. “One of Her Majesty’s favorites was killed in bar brawl,” he answered. “My home happened to be nearby, so they brought his body to me. On his person was a certain token and a rather floridly erotic letter addressed to the queen.”

“To Elizabeth I???”

“The one and only,” Methos answered, the same smirk on his lips. “Now, don’t look so shocked, Joe. It didn’t mean anything. As far as *I* ever had any cause to suspect, Elisabeth truly was the Virgin Queen she claimed to be. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t gratify her ego to have lots of handsome young admirers. Trust me, chaste-but-ardent flirtation was a required skill for every man at court in those days. And some stupid young fool or other was always falling head over heels in love with his queen.” He looked thoughtful. “I believe this one had earned her token by composing a sonnet to her eyebrows or holding her horse in the rain or some other such chivalrous nonsense, and his own imagination filled in the rest. Nonetheless, the letter was certainly torrid enough to have made quite the powerful weapon against the queen, had the wrong people gotten hold of it. So I made sure they didn’t. I waited until the queen had called me in privately to consult about a health matter. Then I placed both token and letter, sealed and apparently unread, into Elisabeth’s own fair hand.”

“Ahem. Just ‘apparently’ unread, Methos?”

“Why, Joe.” Methos assumed a look of injured innocence. “Do you think I would read a private letter? Then take the signet ring from a dead man’s hand and seal it afresh, just to make it look as if I hadn’t read it at all?” 

“Why yes, Methos,” Joe answered, matching his look and tone. “I think you would, and did. I think you probably made a copy of the letter before you resealed it, too.”

Methos smiled reminiscently. “I may have,” he said. “I honestly don’t remember now if I did or if I didn’t. If I did, it was probably in hieroglyphics, and burned with the rest of my papers.” He looked sad for a moment, then smiled brilliantly. “But…being the excellent judge of character that she was, even at that tender stage of her reign…it’s almost certain that Elisabeth *suspected* I’d made a copy. Which left her in the aforesaid dilemma of both wanting to reward me to secure my loyalty and wishing I was as far away from court as she could possibly arrange. Now, she could have solved it by having me come to some sad, fatal accident. But what if I had copied the letter, and left it to those wrong hands? Hence the triple reward of wife, title, and land.”

“And child.”

“Yes.” Methos nodded. “Katy claimed it was mine, of course, just slightly premature. Naturally, it was my miraculous medical prowess that allowed a seven-month child to birth and thrive just as easily as a full-term babe. Maybe she even thought—or hoped—it was the truth. I didn’t argue, Joe. I never asked--but by then I was pretty sure, from a thousand small clues, that little William was the end result of rape, not seduction. And you know what the world was like for women then. Through no fault of her own, Katy had been put in one hell of a bad situation. I wasn’t going to make it any worse by challenging her cover story. Besides. It suited me to suddenly be a wealthy land owner, far away from court. And it suited me to be thought of as the father. Already having one son would have saved a lot of awkward questions, later on.” For the first time, Methos looked truly upset. “I always hated it, those times that I was married to women who didn’t know the truth, who ended up being ridiculed far and wide for being barren. It’s amazing, just how cruel people can be…”

He trailed off. Joe limped over to him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Sounds like you shielded the lady from a lot of that cruelty,” he said quietly. “But if you died less than a year later, you two really didn’t have a ‘later on’.”

“No,” Methos agreed. “I didn’t even get to hang around long enough to hear small William say his first word.” He looked very regretful for a moment, then regrouped. “But the story does have a happy ending.”

“It does?”

“Yes.” Methos nodded. “Katy ended up marrying my friend Jacob. And by all accounts, theirs was a love match, or at least it ended up that way. They had a total of ten children altogether, most of whom survived to have children of their own. And so on and so forth, all through the centuries…right up until World War One, when all three of the last remaining heirs were killed in action within a month of each other. None of them had ever married or fathered a child, so when the estate came up for auction after the war, I stepped in and bought it. The price was right, and it seemed disrespectful, somehow, to let the old place go to strangers.” He looked wistfully around the great hall for a moment, then grinned suddenly. “So you see, I had nothing to do with those suits of armor or that rather inferior display of family swords you see tacked up onto yonder wall. I think they were purchased by some of Katy and Joseph’s descendants around 1850, in an attempt to puff up the family prestige. I wasn’t responsible for that dreadful fireplace you’ve been desperately trying to avoid looking at, either. All of that came long after my time. Or before it, I guess.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess at least I can be grateful for that,” Joe answered. 

He finally let his eyes fall across the fireplace in question—Methos was right, he had been avoiding looking at it. Because even including the slightly tacky arms-and-armor display, the entire entrance hall would have been a classic example of imposing Georgian elegance if hadn’t been for that fireplace. But that fireplace could not be ignored. For starters, the thing was huge: deep enough to hold a roasted ox, and tall enough for Joe to stand up in, at least once he ducked his head to get under the mantel. But what had really made it so extraordinary was its decorations. The wooden mantel piece and surrounding façade were was so covered in elaborately carved cherubs and leaping stags that it was unquestionably one of the most hideous things Joe had ever laid eyes on. Joe found himself staring at it, eyes drawn to a smirking cherub in much the same way that a snake hypnotically draws the gaze of a mouse, until he finally shuddered and forced his eyes away. “Couldn’t you have taken it out?” he asked. “After all, it can’t be original. It looks Victorian to me, so it must have been added years after the house was built. You could have gutted the thing and replaced it with something less…less…”

“Revoltingly ugly?” Methos asked, a tiny smile teasing about his lips. Joe nodded. “Maybe I should have,” Methos agreed. “But I never quite got around to it. I never really lived here long enough to do much in the way of redecorating, you see. I just came for the odd summer now and then.”

“How come?”

Methos shrugged. “Busy doing other things, I suppose,” he answered. “You already know that I spent most of the 1920’s and 30’s at university, catching up on all the latest scientific advances. Then Darius got me involved in the resistance during World War II, and after that…well. Let’s just say that after that I didn’t feel much like playing Lord of the Manor.” 

Joe nodded, feeling sobered. Methos’s experiences during WWII could rival his own time in ‘Nam for sheer horror, and the fact that his beloved had more than five millennia of similar human brutalities in his memory to compare them to really wasn’t a help. “I kept my eye on the place, though,” Methos continued, with the determined brightness of someone firmly resolved to shut the door on the past. “Saw to it that the roof stayed patched and at least a small staff was always employed. Only a skeleton crew, compared to all the people who used to work here, but it was enough to keep the windows washed and the vandals away. Sometimes I used to wonder why I bothered, but I always had the feeling that the place might come in handy someday. And now it has.” He turned to Joe, face suddenly full of shy, boyish eagerness. “I’ve wanted to tell you about it for a long time, Joe. Honest, I have. But at first, when you’d only just found out who I really was, I was a bit shy about bringing you someplace where I’d first lived with someone else…”

Joe snorted. “Can’t imagine why,” he said, half joking, half rueful. “I mean, it’s not like I was insanely jealous and possessive of you, or anything. Your former relationships never bothered me at all. Nuh-uh.”

“Yes, well,” Methos said, trying to hide a smile and failing utterly. “Even after I knew *that* was no longer a problem …well, the last major renovation had been done just before World War One, when they wired the place for electricity. You remember asking me about the running water? There was some…but it was all through lead pipes, and the toilets still had pull-chains. I wanted to make the place livable before I brought you here. Which took quite some time.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking anxious. “That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you when we first moved to London, Joe. Well, that and the fact that I wanted to give you a surprise.”

“Well, you certainly managed that,” Joe murmured. He looked up again at the grand main stairway, so high and sweeping it literally made him dizzy, and shook his head. “So you redid the plumbing,” he said. “What is it with you and remodeling bathrooms, anyway?”

Methos relaxed, giving Joe a relieved grin. It seemed he had really been worried. “Would you believe it’s just been necessity? I don’t have some kind of deep-seated bathroom fixture fetish, honest.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Right. If you say so.” Joe answered. “Just tell me you didn’t put in any solid gold taps, and we’ll be fine.”

“Not a single one. But there may be a few touches of imitation gold leaf on the tiles in the master bath. Will you divorce me over them?” 

Joe sighed. “Just consider yourself on probation,” he said. He walked over to the fireplace and, almost without conscious volition, lifted up a hand to touch one of the sickly looking stags. He couldn’t help it. The thing’s sheer hideousness was strangely magnetic. “I’m willing to let a little gold leaf in the master bathroom slide, Methos. This, on the other hand…”

“Why, Joe,” Methos said. All nervousness gone now, he teasingly mimed a wound to the heart. “Are you telling me you were *serious* earlier, when you said I should get rid of this lovely work of Victorian-era art? After all, it may not be original to the house, but I’m pretty sure it’s still old enough to qualify as an antique. One generation’s ugly relic tends to morph into the next generation’s treasured heirloom with annoying frequency, after all. We may get tourists willing to pay cold hard cash to come through here one day, just to look at this.” Joe gave an un-gentlemanly snort. Methos’s eyes sparkled. “Besides, you never know. It might come in handy for…other purposes.”

“Like what? Roasting venison whole?”

“Welllll…” No question about it, Methos’s eyes were definitely sparkling. “Possibly. But I was more thinking about the upcoming holidays. I doubt that the mantel would be improved at all by the presence of tinsel garlands and stockings. But can you think of a better place for roasting chestnuts?”

Joe, frowning, steadied his weight against his cane so he could duck his head under the mantle and look up into the impressive expanse of darkness above. “Maybe not,” he agreed, voice echoing impressively up into the dark. “I just hope that this overblown façade looks better by firelight, if you decide to try it. Otherwise, all these cherubs might cause a man to lose his appetite.” Joe pulled his head back into the light—a cherub bearing some kind of flower leered at him salaciously from just above eye level—and shivered slightly. “Enough of this,” Joe said, straightening up and readjusting his shirt with a little tug. “I want to see this master bedroom of which you speak. Imitation gold leaf and all.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

***

It was the start of a very satisfying vacation. 

In some ways, those two weeks before Christmas ended up being more of a honeymoon than their real honeymoon had been--a week in Paris that, perhaps quite predictably, had ended up being more about detangling MacLeod from his latest Immortal drama than anything resembling romance. This more than made up for it, though. They talked, they made love, they ate far more of Mrs. Thompson’s astonishingly good cooking than was good for Joe’s waistline; they went for several long walks around the beautiful, lonely grounds. Many days, when the weather was too cold and dreary to do anything else, they simply stayed in and explored. The two centuries worth of art and artifacts that lined the halls and lingered in the corners of the attics may never have been Methos’s. But many of them were close enough to things he’d owned during similar eras that going through them stirred a constant tide of remembrance—a tide he freely shared with Joe, who drank in every word. 

It wasn’t that Methos was stingy about sharing his memories with Joe in London, Joe reflected. He wasn’t. But in London there was always someone around, always the chance that the wrong pair of ears might overhear. Here, once they’d gotten out of earshot of Mrs. Thompson’s stronghold in the kitchen and were alone together within house’s vast solitude, Methos was finally free to relax his vigilance—so Joe got to see and hear about Methos’s past in a gentle, intimate, easy way he’d never expected. It felt a bit like visiting a girlfriend’s parents’ house for the first time, and getting the opportunity to go through old family photos and treasures he’d never seen. By the end of the first week, Joe felt even closer to Methos than he ever had. Which was saying something.

And at the close of every day, Mrs. Thompson—who had taken to mothering them both with a fervency that, for once and for all, laid aside any doubts about whether or not Joe had indeed contracted Methos’s ability to “do cute”—insisted on serving them hot cider. Or mulled wine. Or one of half a dozen other hot beverages, each laced with just enough alcohol “to keep the winter chill away.” Joe wouldn’t have minded this, except that she insisted on serving them on the comfortable leather couch she’d caused to be dragged in front of the fireplace in the entrance hall, so that “you two newlyweds” could enjoy “the firelight of that lovely, romantic old fireplace.” 

Joe, who knew better than to fight battles he was destined to lose, had chosen not to argue. Mrs. Thompson had a gift for creating chill-chasing beverages that were wonders to behold. Besides. According to Methos, the entrance hall fireplace was the only fireplace in the entire house with a chimney that still worked, and thus was their only chance to enjoy any romantic firelight at all. But that didn’t stop Joe from making fun of the ornately carved cherubs and leaping stags—which, sadly, turned out to be even more unnervingly hideous by firelight than they were by day—whenever possible, i.e., whenever Mrs. Thompson couldn’t hear. Nor did it stop him from wondering aloud nearly every night just what the original owners could have been thinking. Methos simply smiled smugly every time Joe mentioned the matter, agreeing but changing the subject in a way that Joe found highly suspicious. He had a strong feeling that his irritating lover knew much more than he was letting on…

But it wasn’t until Christmas Eve that Joe finally learned just what that ‘more’ was. 

They were alone in the house that night. After shaking hands and handing out envelopes filled with what Joe suspected were some quite impressive Christmas bonuses, Methos had dismissed the staff to spend the holiday with their families—including Mrs. Thompson, who had to be reassured multiple times that they wouldn’t starve to death during the forty-eight hours she was planning to spend at her daughter’s. Joe had hung back and let Methos handle the reassuring, suppressing his snickers all the time. When Mrs. Thompson finally left, Methos closed the door and threw himself against it, wiping his brow theatrically. “Whew!” he said. “Alone at last. I thought she’d never leave.” 

“It never ceased to amaze me, how every woman over the age of twenty-five or so insists on mothering you,” Joe said, highly amused. “When she started asking if you were *sure* you knew how to turn the oven on, I almost fell over laughing. You’ve been successfully feeding yourself for more than 5,000 years, after all. What would she say if she knew?”

“Oh, no man ever really outgrows the need for mothering, be he fifty years old or five thousand,” Methos answered easily. “And as far as the kitchen appliances go, Mrs. Thompson may have a point.”

“Really?”

“Truly.” Methos nodded. “That oven is a beast, Joe. It was imported from France during the 1980’s, and in all the years since, only Mrs. Thompson has ever been able to intimidate it enough to get an entire meal out of it. I’m willing to try doing battle with it anyway, though. Mrs. Thompson left us a very nice roasted goose to reheat for dinner, and if I know her, there’s probably more than one delicious pie in the refrigerator as well. I’m *fairly* sure I can convince the oven to warm them up without causing a major disaster…”

Joe snorted. “Maybe you’d better let me help.”

Alas, the contrary oven managed to defeat both of their best efforts. After staring at its mysterious markings for twenty minutes (“I thought you said it was French, Methos.” “I thought it was, Joe.” “Then what the heck are these knobs marked with “elp”, “eelp”, and “eeelp” supposed to mean?” “Your guess is as good as mine, Joe. Maybe they’re supposed to be ‘help’? Said with a French accent, and progressive degrees of desperation?”) and then almost setting themselves on fire trying to light the decidedly non-self-lighting gas burners with a match, they resorted to a far more traditional method of cooking their Christmas meal. Joe bundled up a bottle of champagne and a broad assortment of Mrs. Thompson’s finest homemade crumpets and tea cakes into a tablecloth. Methos kindled the fire left waiting for them in the entrance hall fireplace’s grate and pulled the couch up close to the flames. And then the two of them had a lovely time, drinking and toasting bready delicacies at the end of the fireplace’s rather intimidating, almost javelin-length set of antique iron pokers. 

“Well, what do you know,” Joe said some time later, his stomach pleasantly filled and his mood more than pleasantly mellowed by the champagne. “It turns out this old thing is useful for more than being an eyesore, after all. Who knew?”

“Well, actually…” 

Uh-oh. There was that smile of Methos’s again. The one with the dimple. And yes, the impish twinkle in the eye as well. Alarmed, Joe felt some of his champagne-induced relaxation flee. What was his irritating beloved up to now? “This fireplace has a few…talents…that don’t immediately meet the eye,” Methos went on, blithely ignoring Joe’s discomfiture. “One of which I was planning to show you tonight. After we ate. As a present.”

“Oh?” Now Joe was confused as well as alarmed. “But we always exchange gifts on Christmas *morning*. The important ones, at least.”

Double uh-oh. Methos’s eyes went from twinkling to outright dancing. “Well, this one *could* wait until morning, I suppose,” he drawled. “But I have this horrible feeling that once the grandchildren have rousted everyone out of bed and opened their own gifts, Mrs. Thompson is going to abandon them for at least a few hours in order to come check on us. And this particular present requires absolute privacy to adequately enjoy. It also happens to require a change of wardrobe, which I laid out for you in the bedroom. Why don’t you go change into it, and meet me back here when you’re done?” 

Methos got to his feet and started tidying away the remains of their meal, apparently completely confident that Joe was going to accede to his wishes. But Joe, who still felt like he was running an important step or two behind events, spoke curiously, even though he stood up at the same time as Methos. “Wardrobe change?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t you need to change, too?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Methos stopped his tidying in order to come and stand in front of Joe, giving the lapels of his sport jacket a proprietary tug. “The wardrobe change isn’t your present...it’s mine. Your gift will be waiting for you when you come back. Now, will you stop acting like the proverbial curious cat and do what I ask? All will be revealed. I promise.”

He laid his hand on Joe’s cheek as he said the last word, looking deeply into Joe’s eyes…a look that promised all kinds of things, the very least of which was the revelation of whatever odd gift the Immortal had in mind. A strange thrill of heat ran through Joe. He swallowed, and started to limp toward the stairs. On the bottom step, though, he turned back. “That cat,” he said. “The one that curiosity killed. You know what they say. Satisfaction brought him back to life.”

“Must have been an Immortal cat, then,” Methos replied. He was already busy pushing the couch back to its proper place within the room. “Which, given the nature of curiosity, doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Now get!”

Joe got.

When he reached the master bedroom, he found a red velvet Santa Clause costume laid out for him on the bed, complete with fur-trimmed hat and shiny black leather belt and boots. The hot thrill that Joe had felt in the hall suddenly returned with interest. It had only been one year ago that Joe had accidently discovered his beloved’s surprising Santa Clause fetish. Methos, it seemed, found almost any representation of the Jolly Old Elf to be incredibly stimulating sexually, and the sight of Joe dressed up in a Santa Clause costume to be erotic beyond compare. There were reasons for this, Joe had discovered; reasons that were rooted in both Santa’s and Methos’s ancient past, to old orgiastic winter celebrations and an even older sexual symbolism the modern world had inherited without understanding. Joe hadn’t really needed to understand it, though. All he’d needed was to see the look on Methos’s face, the first time the old Immortal had ever seen Joe dressed that way. And then to make love to him, still wearing the red velvet and white fur…

Joe donned the costume quickly, shivering slightly as he remembered. So his infuriatingly enigmatic lover wanted to indulge in a bit of re-creation for the holiday, did he? Well, Joe couldn’t argue with that. He whistled as he buttoned the heavy coat and fastened the wide leather belt, already picturing Methos’s expression when he returned to the hall. 

But when he’d finished dressing and had finally limped his way down the great staircase—that was the main drawback of living like an old-fashioned country gentlemen, too many damned stairs—Joe was the one who ended up staring.

Methos was standing in front of the fire place, head hanging, stripped to the waist…and around each wrist he wore a thick black leather cuff. It turned out that two of the cherubs carried iron rings instead of harps, a detail that had been more or less invisible amidst the overwhelming ornateness of the rest of the piece. Methos wasn’t bound to the rings. He simply had his fingers looped loosely through them, the clasps of his cuffs dangling, free and unattached. But it was very obvious to Joe that he *could* be bound. In an instant. 

If he and Joe both wanted him to be. 

“Never believe the modern mythology that the Victorian Age was an era of intense sexual repression, Joe,” Methos said with a smile when Joe had recovered himself enough to walk closer, staring. “The truth is, the upper classes during Victoria’s reign were an incredibly horny bunch, ones who took sexual deviancy to whole new heights. This quaint little invention, for instance, was known as a ‘binding fireplace.’ For obvious reasons.” His smile slipped a little as he took in Joe’s gobsmacked expression. “I…ah, I thought perhaps we might want to make use of it tonight.”

“Ummm…” 

Joe slowly crossed the room, ending up at Methos’s side. But even though the flames were crackling cheerfully and Joe was now standing right in front of the mantle, all he could feel from the fire was a very gentle warmth. Why hadn’t he noticed just how coolly the fireplace had burned when they’d been toasting crumpets? He thought, rather distractedly, that the lack of heat was probably by design, and a very lucky thing for the fireplace’s intended, ah, residents. Obviously, the original builders had more than roasting venison in mind when they’d made the thing so big and deep. This thought made Joe flush almost as rosy-red as the flames, and to cover his embarrassment he took a closer look at the rings, pretending to be keenly interested in their craftsmanship when all he really wanted to do was avoid looking at Methos’s face. “All those times you smirked while I was making fun of this thing,” he said. “You knew what it was for all along?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Methos’s face crinkle into his most annoying grin. “I’ve told you before, Joe. I’m easily amused.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are that.” Joe shook his head, still avoiding looking at Methos directly. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you’re the one who had it built here, after all.”

“No, Joe,” Methos answered patiently. “Cherubs and stag horns have never been my idea of great erotic decoration. Besides, I already told you. By the time I was able to re-buy this place after the War, this fireplace had already been here for at least sixty years.” He smiled. “Given that these rings are placed rather too high for the average woman of that period, I’m forced to conclude that one of Katy and Jacob’s great-great-grandsons had some inclinations his great-great-grandparents would never have approved of.”

“Inclinations. Yeah.” 

Joe swallowed hard. Truth be told, the sight of Methos holding onto the rings like that, firelight and shadow highlighting every glorious curve of his arms and neck, was doing a hell of a lot for Joe’s own ‘inclinations’. He was flushed, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the fire. “Could have been a great-grand daughter who had it built, instead.”

“Mmm. Possibly,” Methos answered. “But do you see that cherub on the inside corner, the one with the particularly sickening smile who startled you so much on our first day here? He’s carrying a pansy flower. Quite the symbol of homosexual passion, in its day.” Methos craned his head, regarding the rest of the fireplace’s decorations thoughtfully. “All these carvings are codes for illicit pleasures, one way or another. Leaves of grass, tuberoses… There’s even some opium poppies carved down near the bottom. I’m actually a bit surprised that such a thing was installed in the main hall at all. Usually fireplaces like these were placed in much more discrete locations. Like the smoking room. Or the master’s private study.”

“Yeah, well. I’m guessing that that particular great-grandson had an exhibitionist streak along with his other ‘inclinations’,” Joe said shakily. “His dinner parties must have been something else.” 

Almost as if his hands no longer belonged to him, Joe watched himself reach up and attach one, just one, of Methos’s cuffs to an iron ring. He touched the leather wrapped around Methos’s wrist with gentle reverence, irrationally afraid that just that touch would hurt him. It didn’t. Methos instantly inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, but pain was obviously not the cause. “God,” Joe said under his breath, his own libido surging at the effect that touch had had. Then he shook his head and took an uneasy step back. “We’ve, um…we’ve never done anything like this before.”

“No,” Methos agreed. “But we’ve never had quite this opportunity before, either. And it *is* Christmas Eve. Time to make some fantasies come true.” He reached out with his free hand, lightly tugging the collar of Joe’s Santa jacket. When Joe didn’t smile Methos pulled back, looking stricken. “I’m sorry, Joe. I thought…but you’re right, we really haven’t done anything like this before. If it makes you uncomfortable…”

“It does make me uncomfortable,” Joe said honestly. And it did. Immobility and helplessness were too much a part of his own daily life for him to ever want to inflict them on anyone else. But then Methos stretched out his free arm, his fingers once again threading through the other ring—and he looked so damn beautiful like that, so helplessly and temptingly displayed. It was impossible for Joe *not* to wonder what he could do with all that loveliness if he just chained that other wrist. What kind of sounds could he make Methos make? What sorts of new pleasures could they both share? “But it also…”

A knowing smile. “Turns you on like crazy?”

“Yeah,” Joe admitted gruffly. “Yeah. It does.” He trailed a hand, gently, down Methos’s chest to his stomach. He was fascinated by the way the position made every beautiful line of Methos’s chiseled muscles stand on display. And he was even more fascinated by the subtle shudders of pleasure that ran through Methos’s body as he moved his fingers. Joe looked into his husband’s eyes. “Is this really what you want?” 

“Yes.”

“Then it’s what you get.” Joe carefully chained Methos’s other wrist. Then he stepped back, taking off the Santa hat and the silly padded jacket and draping them over the couch. Their removal left him in a white cotton t-shirt, a pair of black suspenders holding up the red velvet pants, and the black leather boots—an outfit that secretly made Joe feel even more ridiculous than the full Santa costume did, but which, judging from Methos’s suddenly riveted eyes, was actually hotness personified. Joe walked back and stood close, letting Methos feel the heat of his body through the t-shirt without actually allowing their chests to touch. “After all, making Christmas dreams come true is what being Santa is all about,” he murmured. And bent down to sharply scratch his beard over one of Methos’s nipples.

For the first of many times that evening, the cherubs’ grip on their iron rings was tested.

Their lovemaking was different that night. Subtler, in a lot of ways. Even once Joe had loosened the Immortal’s jeans and let them fall to the floor, with Methos bound in that position all Joe could really do was touch him with his hands. There was no way he could fuck him, or even kneel down to take Methos’s cock in his mouth. But god, the intensity of those touches! The heat from the fire had slowly sunk into Methos’s back, turning his skin into hot butter as Joe ran his fingers down his spine to his ass; Joe felt simultaneously like a god and like the humblest of students as he did. He touched every inch of Methos he could reach, watching carefully, learning with his own eyes and ears and heart how being bound seemed to intensify even the lightest of sensations—and paradoxically, how it also seemed to make Methos welcome the intense sensations even more. An accidental scratch of Joe’s fingernails over Methos’s abdomen caused a gasp that made Joe repeat the scratch deliberately, and the fascinated Joe had simply gone on from there, doing many of the things he’d once glimpsed in Methos’s memories but had never, ever thought he’d want to do himself. At one point, he picked up his wide Santa belt; he looked at it thoughtfully, then carefully folded the leather in his hand, and slapped it down hard against Methos’s inner thigh. It hit with a surprisingly loud cracking sound, startling them both. Methos, who had been standing with his eyes closed, swore and pulled hard against the rings. “Sweet godly fuck, Joe,” he said, eyes blinking open and staring at Joe with far more surprise than hurt. “What the hell was *that*?”

“My belt,” Joe answered instantly, wondering what the hell he could have been thinking. In the firelight, it was hard to see how much damage he’d inflicted, but he thought Methos’s skin was only slightly reddened, not bruised. Then again, with Methos’s astonishingly powerful Immortal healing, it was sometimes hard to tell. “Did I hurt you?”

The Immortals’ voice sounded strangled. “Not hurt, exactly, no,” he managed, and Joe, startled again, raised his gaze a little higher—to Methos’s very large, very swollen cock, as hard and urgent as Joe had ever seen. “Jesus Christ, Joe. Do it again. Please.”

“I—“ Joe had never felt quite so flustered. To buy himself some time, he again lifted the belt and ran it over Methos’s cock, caressing him lightly with the edge of the leather. Methos shuddered and took a sharp, deep breath, but there was a new tension in him now, a tension of expectation Joe knew only he could break. He slapped the belt down against Methos’s thigh again, much more sharply this time. Methos writhed and cursed, but did not even attempt to pull away. “Fuck, Joe,” he said, panting harshly. “So good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop. Fuck, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop…”

“Shh. I’m not going to stop. It’s okay. I know.” And he did. God only knew just *how* he knew—intuition? Body language? More of Methos’s long ago glimpsed Quickening memories, coming to his aid?—but Joe did. Whispering a promise that all would be well if he could just hang on, Joe re-folded the belt in his hand, shortening its length. And then began to beat him in earnest.

Just how long it went on, Joe would never know. He lost track of the minutes, just as he lost track of the number of times the lash connected with Methos’s skin. All he cared about was the way Methos writhed and cursed ecstatically after each and every stroke, startled exclamations inevitably turning into broken pleadings for more. Joe was astonished by the way each strike of the belt made Methos’s cock jerk up even harder against his abdomen, pre-come leaking in glistening trails down the ruby-red head—he was astonished, and almost unbearably aroused. His own cock had become an iron bar within his mercifully baggy velvet pants, but Joe lost track of that, too. Truthfully, he was barely aware of it all, except as a slight impediment that made him aim the belt even more carefully. Nothing existed except for Methos…

Finally, more profoundly educated in the ways of Methos’s body than even four solid years as lovers had managed to achieve, he dropped the belt and stepped in close, fastening his teeth over Methos’s beautifully muscled chest. He bit down hard, sinking his teeth deeper and deeper into the creamy skin until he finally broke through. And they both came and came… 

***

Morning. Joe woke up alone in the bedroom of his and Methos’s big master suite, with only the vaguest idea of how he’d gotten there. He had a very faint memory of shakily freeing Methos from his bonds, than letting the Immortal support him as they both stumbled limply up the stairs. Two things were most decidedly *not* faint, however. First, there was the strong metallic taste of Methos’s blood still lingering behind Joe’s teeth. And second, there was the bad case of morning-after regret squirming in Joe’s heart… 

It wasn’t that he felt guilty, exactly. Joe already knew he hadn’t done anything Methos hadn’t wanted him to do. It was just that inflicting pain on a lover during sex—and worse, getting ferociously aroused from the inflicting—was so directly opposite to everything Joe had thought he’d known about himself that he was experiencing a kind of mental rupture. He sat up in bed, looking curiously into the antique cheval glass that stood against one wall. It seemed incredible that he should look so much like himself—a bit more bleary-eyed and rumple-haired than usual, perhaps, but still essentially the same Joe Dawson he’d been the day before. Funny. He’d half expected to see a stranger…

A cheerful whistle coming through the dressing room distracted him. Methos pushed his way backwards through the door, a heavy breakfast tray in his hands. “Good morning, gorgeous husband o’ mine,” he called out cheerfully, setting the tray down on the dresser and proceeding to fuss with plate covers and forks. “Guess what? I was right. Mrs. Thompson *did* swing by this morning to check on us. Fortunately I was able to talk her into leaving again, but not before she showed me how to subdue the beast in the kitchen…well, at least long enough to get one of the burners to light. I made us omelets, three for each of us. I figured that after last night, you’d wake up just as hungry as I did…” He swung around, each hand bearing a laden plate, and froze when he saw Joe’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I can still taste your blood in my mouth.”

“Ah.” Methos didn’t seem particularly surprised. He simply brought the plates to the bed and sat down, waiting patiently. 

It was one of those things about Methos that Joe appreciated the most, this ability of his to wait. He had a way of staying silent that wasn’t really silence at all, but more a willingness to hang out with Joe’s silence, to be still and wait for whatever it was Joe really needed to say, however long it took him to say it. After a while, Joe did. “I’ve never raised a hand to you before,” he said gruffly. “Nor hit you with anything heavier than a pillow, no matter how sorely I was tempted. Especially not in bed. The once or twice I’ve gotten carried away and done something that would have left you with bruises if you were mortal, I’ve always felt really, really bad…”

“And apologized profusely to me afterward. I know,” Methos agreed. His face was very grave. “That’s meant a lot to me over the years, Joe. Especially at the beginning. The fact that you understood that even though I’m Immortal and heal very fast, being hurt still matters.” He ducked his head slightly, looking down at the bed. “Many of my lovers haven’t been capable of appreciating that distinction, in the past.”

“I know,” Joe said eagerly. “I think my heart knew that from the moment I first kissed you, stupid as my mind would be about admitting it. And then, after you shared your Quickening with me, and I first experienced your memories…hell, I knew for sure it was true then. So I’ve always tried to, you know, be extra gentle with you. Or at the very least to apologize when I slipped up. So I wouldn’t be like any of those other assholes who hurt you along the way.” Methos nodded solemnly, just once. Joe shivered. “But last night…”

“Joe.” For the first time, Methos sounded ever so faintly exasperated. “You were there. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, you weren’t afflicted by a sudden bout of temporary blindness, either. Therefore, you have to know that last night was NOT about me getting hurt. Not in the slightest.” 

“Yeah, maybe I do,” Joe agreed. “You certainly didn’t act like you wanted me to stop. It even seemed like you…you seemed to *need*…” He trailed off, unable to find the words he was looking for, and was vastly reassured when Methos again gave him one of his simple, solemn nods. It gave Joe the courage to say what he had to next. “And god knows that I’ve seen memories of things you enjoyed with Byron and Kronos that made last night look like a Sunday school picnic. So maybe it really wasn’t about you being hurt. But what if…what if it WAS about me hurting you?”

“I don’t think I understand, Joe.” 

“I enjoyed it,” Joe spelled out, a little surprised that he had to. “I chained you up and made you feel helpless and bit you until you bled…and I loved every damn second of it. It got me so damn hot. Christ. More than that.” He looked helplessly at his beloved. “It made me come so hard…” 

“Oh. I see.” The faintest hint of amusement flickered on Methos’s lips. “Well, that’s a relief, Joe. I’d hate to think it was a total stranger who’d left come all over my jeans.”

“Methos!” Joe roared. “You aren’t listening to me!” It didn’t help; his irritating life mate was chuckling outright, now. Perturbed, Joe sank back against the headboard. “Methos, damn it, this is serious,” he said helplessly. “The Joe Dawson I have always known myself to be does not get off on causing his lovers pain. He really, really doesn’t.”

“I know,” Methos answered, his laughter vanishing as quickly as it had come. “But he *does* get off on being an extraordinary lover, one who gives his partners exactly what they need, when they need it. That’s what last night really was about, Joe. Giving me what I needed.” Startled, Joe stared at his husband. Methos looked back levelly. “Believe me, Joe. I know last night wasn’t your usual thing. The fact that you were willing to share it with me anyway just makes it that much more special.” He shrugged slightly. “And now that you have, I seriously doubt I’ll ever ask you to do it again.”

For a second Joe was dismayed. Then, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a relief so sweet he was almost ashamed. “But…I thought…”

“That’s what’s really been worrying you, isn’t it? That having lured you over to the darker side of human sexual expression once, I’d now want to break out the whips and chains each and every night?” Astonished, feeling a little abashed and not knowing quite why, Joe nodded. Methos shook his head. “No, Joe. Truth be told, I only get a serious craving for that sort of play once a century or so. Wonderful as last night was, it was enough. More than enough for both our lifetimes, I think.”

“But…”

“No buts. It’s the truth.” Joe bit down on his lip, still not entirely convinced. Methos sighed. “Joe, you share my memory. For your sake, I sometimes wish you didn’t. But thanks to the Spring, I share yours, as well. And since that is a gift precious beyond fathoming to me, I have to assume that you feel the same way. Am I right?” Joe nodded quickly. That was an easy answer. “So,” Methos continued. “Since my sex life is an open book to you, complete with detailed centerfolds printed in glorious life-like color, it’s pointless to pretend. You already know that over the last 5,000 years, I have done almost everything it’s possible for a male human to do, sexually speaking. And you also know that some of the most pleasurable experiences of my life have involved activities you would find disturbing. Revolting, even. ” Joe nodded again, a slightly squeamish feeling rising in his chest. Methos leaned toward him. “But here’s the thing,” he said quietly. “If you’d ever bothered to look, you’d also already know that the best sex I’ve ever had—the most pleasurable experiences of my life—they’ve all been with you. And last night was one of them, yes, but—god, Joe. If I look back at our lives together, last night wasn’t even in the top ten.” He looked at Joe earnestly. “Can’t you see that? Don’t you *know*?” 

And Joe did. Sights and sensations and sounds starting crashing through his memory, ones he’d never really looked at before, because they were already familiar to him, already remembered from his own point of view. But from Methos’s they were different, and even more astonishing. Joe closed his eyes, letting the tide of love and wonder and sweet, sweet pleasure break over him. “So it’s true,” he said. “It wasn’t just flattery, all those times you told me I was the best lover you’d ever had. I really am.”

“Yes.” Joe could hear the roguish smile in his husband’s voice. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes, it was also on Methos’s face. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, no. Never,” Joe agreed. He shivered slightly. Seen through Methos’s eyes, last night really had been extraordinary. Maybe…but no. He had to be true to himself. “You’re really okay, then, if last night turns out to be a one-night thing?”

“Yes. Really.” Methos nodded. “And just to prove it to you, I intend to give you the hottest, most satisfying, most sweetly vanilla blow job you’ve ever experienced before we leave this room. But later. First, I think we should eat our eggs. They’ve already gotten cold enough as it is. And you are going to need your strength.”

“Mmmm. I’ll look forward to that. And to returning the favor, later on.” Heart considerably lightened, Joe leaned forward and pecked Methos’s lips with a promissory kiss, then set about eating his omelets with a happy, untroubled soul. But after a few bites, he paused. “Methos?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I’ll still wear the Santa suit for you. Each and every year.”

****

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Lady Marjorie Bellamy, the faithful butler Hudson, and the indomitable cook Mrs. Bridges are all characters from the BBC’s “Upstairs, Downstairs.” For those of you who don’t know it, “Upstairs, Downstairs” was essentially the “Downton Abbey” of the 1970’s—a period costume drama exploring the separate-but-highly-interdependent lives of an upper crust British family and its servants. And despite Joe’s disparagement, it’s quite a *good* costume drama, honest. It tickles me extraordinarily to imagine Methos and Joe crowding around a television to watch reruns of it together. :)
> 
> More notes: There wasn’t really a good place to fit this into the story. But of course the boys gave each other more than kinky sex for their first married Christmas. Joe tracked down Methos’s old copy of “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer”, the one that had been sold when Juniper Street Books was liquidated. And Methos found a guitar that was exactly the same make and model as the first guitar Joe had ever bought for himself, a guitar which was stolen from his sister’s (Lynn’s mom’s) car while Joe was still in Vietnam. Just wanted y’all to know. :)


End file.
